


The Governor's Son

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: FrUK oneshots [10]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Children, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Developing Friendships, Family Issues, Gen, Growing Up Together, Language Barrier, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Roman Britain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Arthur observes the Roman settlement near his village, paying particular attention to the new governor's son.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), France & Spain (Hetalia)
Series: FrUK oneshots [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/592582
Kudos: 12





	1. A Beam of Light on a Distant Sill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I moved this out of the "FrUK Collection" because I figured it can stand alone. I also still have a half-finished second chapter in the oven.
> 
> FrUK Week is going on on tumblr and today's prompt was "historical" so I did this up at work.
> 
> “Historical” here means “loosely based in some past era”. Francis’ time as a Roman has always fascinated me. Given that he went on to become a pre-eminent world power, it may have been the only time in his life he felt truly “othered” and I’m sure that had a formative impact. Here I’ve explored it in a human AU context but it’s still fun to look at his complicated relationship with Rome (the man), particularly through the eyes of another party
> 
> May explore this AU later in the week for other prompts?
> 
> Mairead = Ireland  
> Angus = Scotland  
> Daffyd = Wales

The new governor’s son did not look like him. While the governor had a head of proper dark Roman curls, his son instead wore a crown of floaty golden-blond locks. The governor’s skin was sun-bronzed, his eyes brownish—Arthur had never seen him up close enough to say for sure—but his son looked almost as if he could have fit in with Arthur’s people— fair skin, light eyes, and at his age, none of the governor’s muscular bulk. Arthur had seen him sitting in the window of the governor’s manse, looking gloomily out at the woods beyond the settlement. He could not see Arthur from where he crouched on a low tree branch—Arthur always made sure to stay out of sight around the settlement. For one, father would skin him alive if he knew he was skulking around the Romans.

There were not many children in the settlement—mostly officers and soldiers. It wasn’t that Arthur liked other children, or had any particular desire for a playmate—he found the best games were the ones he played by himself—but there was something intriguing about a Roman his own age.

…or close enough. Even with what little he had seen of the governor’s son, he suspected the boy was older. Hard to tell just from looking in the little window on the second story.

Besides the governor’s son, there was plenty else to interest a curious young boy about the settlement—while not much happened that Arthur could tell, there were many things unfamiliar to him. Mairead had described some of them for him, but his sister’s tales weren’t quite the same as seeing it in person—especially as he had begun to figure out that she exaggerated quite a bit for his entertainment (he hadn’t yet seen a man-eating hog there, but it might be hidden somewhere).

First, there were the soldiers themselves, in their strange dress with their foreign weapons and strange, close-cropped hair and smooth faces, like boys. There were the buildings, so carefully planned and constructed, like growing a village out of the ground (Magic? he wondered. He was not quite old enough to remember the construction of the settlement—the felling of the trees, the skirmishes with the Britons, the months of hammering and shouting). And there were their voices, of course—nothing like Arthur heard in his own village. What were they doing he wondered? Father said they were conquerors, but why? What did they gain? What was their goal?

It was some time after he had first spotted the new governor’s son in the window, as he was skirting the west side of the settlement, that he got near enough to hear the sound of children’s voices. This was unusual enough in and of itself (he knew the governor had other children, but they did not appear in the window of the fair-haired child) that he had to creep closer to investigate. It was difficult, as the Romans had cleared much of the plant life surrounding the settlement, to prevent the Britons from sneaking up on them, but Arthur was small, and with his dark green hood pulled up, blended fairly well into the grassy landscape.

It was the boy, yes, and some others—one about the same age, but much more like the governor, with similar olive-toned skin and dark hair. Two more, startlingly alike, but younger than Arthur, hanging around their older fellows. The fair-haired boy and his darker companion circled each other with wooden blades, smirking and taunting.

“I’ll have you this time, Antonius,” said the fair-haired boy, his chin tilted up.

“No way,” said Antonius. “I’m Caesar, and I’m going to win. Pay attention, Lovino!” This directive, aimed at the two younger boys, was ignored. One of them turned instead to pull the other’s hair.

“Prepare to be overrun by barbarians,” declared the fair-haired boy, lunging. Their false weapons clacked together and the way they fought was almost like a dance, twisting, turning, swiping the lightweight blades aside, lunging and leaping backwards to avoid being struck. Their odd-looking tunics flapped with the movement, and Arthur was reminded of watching his older brothers practice fight out in the field. They never used wooden swords, though—but that was why Daffyd had lost the upper part of his left ear.

“What’s this?” The governor interrupted, striding towards them from the far end of the stable. He towered over both boys, and Arthur guessed he had once been a warrior, if he was not still. The last governor had not been, and they had all wondered why Caesar would put a man who could not fight in charge of anything. This man, though, wore his scars proudly, and the breadth of his shoulders suggested great strength. “Still using wood? Leave that to Feliciano and Lovino! Are you babes like them?”

Antonius and the fair-haired boy lowered their false blades and shuffled their feet.

“It was just for play, Grandfather,” the blue-eyed boy spoke up.

“If you’re going to play, you might as well learn,” the governor instructed. “Especially as you have yet to master your latest tests to satisfaction.” The pale Roman looked down at the ground. “Put those away, Franciscus. Fetch your swords.” The fair-haired boy took the wooden toy from Antonius and did as he was bade, returning with real weapons. They were so small, though! Arthur marveled, and thought they must have been crafted specifically for the boys to use. Their own blades! Arthur felt a sharp pang of envy, and flattened himself more against the earth, watching attentively.

Again, Franciscus and Antonius took up their fighting positions, but the playful ease was gone, there was tension in their posture now. Eventually, Franciscus struck out half-heartedly at Antonius, a swipe he easily knocked away. They began to circle each other, sizing one another up, looking for a place to strike. Antonius moved next; Franciscus deflected his blade and stepped back. Antonius attacked again; another deflection and two steps back. And again, and again, and again, until he was nearly backed up against the stable.

“Franciscus! Hit him back, you won’t win by parrying him to death!” the governor called. Franciscus hesitated, looking at the governor, and Antonius took the change to swipe again—startled, unprepared to block, Franciscus dropped his blade, took the last available step backwards, and threw his hands up. The governor shook his head. “Try again.” He brought them back to where they had started, and once more they took up their fighting positions.

“You may take three steps in retreat,” the governor told Franciscus. “No more.”

“Grandfather…”

“No. You must learn to fight. You are not a little boy to cry over being struck anymore. Antonius is confident in his skill, as you must be. Someday you will be a Roman soldier and you will not survive if you cannot fight.” Franciscus nodded—or it looked like he did, from where Arthur was—and lifted his sword.

Antonius attacked, and out of habit, Franciscus used up one of his retreats parrying it.

“Hit him, Franciscus! You were not afraid with the wood, treat your blade the same!” So Franciscus struck out, and Antonio parried, and riposted. “Again! Again! Again!” The governor went on goading him until Franciscus was lashing out in a kind of frenzy, forcing Antonius back with a series of desperate parries, until they both cried out and Franciscus dropped his blade, hands flying to over his mouth.

“Antonius!” The dark-haired boy staggered back, letting his own weapon fall.

“Ow! That really hurts!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”

“Let me look at it.” The governor stepped in and lifted Antonius’ face. “Hm. That’s a real cut. You’d better go have that looked at.” He sent Antonius off, and then turned to Franciscus, who was collecting the swords. “The Roman blood is in you. You must channel your barbarian rage with Roman discipline, and you will be unstoppable.”

Franciscus said something too low for Arthur to hear.

“Antonius will be fine. Accidents happen. But the more you practice, the more in control you will be, and the less often they will happen.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

They moved deeper into the cluster of buildings, and Arthur’s show for the day was over. The two youngest boys, who had been alternating between watching their brothers fight and throwing grass at each other, trundled off to find something else to do.

At home, Arthur got an earful from mother about disappearing and failing to tend the sheep, as Daffyd, who was usually in charge of such things, had been off hunting with father and Angus. He balked at being sent to bed without dinner, but the effect in deterring him from observing the strangers was negligible.

It was many days before he saw the governor’s grandchildren again. Not far from the settlement there was a creek, and over the creek the Romans had built a small wooden bridge, and as Arthur gathered berries on the Britons’ side of the bridge, he heard their voices, and stashed himself into the bushes out of habit. Wouldn’t do to run into Romans—not that he was scared of a couple of boys!

“…still sorry it happened.”

“Yeah, but now I’ll have a cool scar!” That was Antonius’ boisterous voice, and through the leaves Arthur caught sight of his feet kicking up dust as he skipped and trotted along.

“I’ve scarred you for life!” Franciscus groaned.

“Yeah, you went a little crazy there! Hey but now when I join the army, I’ll already have a tough guy scar. I’ll just have to think of a good story for how I got it…oh, maybe I was fighting a bear! Ten bears!”

“No one’s going to believe you fought ten bears,” Franciscus said as they approached the river. “You’re too skinny.”

“Five bears?”

“Stick with one.” They reached the arched bridge, and Franciscus dropped down onto the edge, hanging his legs over. Closer, Arthur could see that Antonius was still wearing bandages from their bout by the stables—one on his cheek beneath his eye, and another pressed to his lower lip. Between these was a vivid red streak, scabbed over and angry.

“Maybe the girls will like it!” he suggested, leaning against one of the bridge’s supporting poles.

“Girls like pretty things, not—well, maybe.” Overcome perhaps with guilt, Franciscus dropped whatever criticism had been on his tongue.

“Girls like tough guys,” Antonius said. “Look at your father!”

“You don’t know anything about him,” Franciscus pointed out. “Maybe he was a weakling.”

“Barbarians are tough guys! Mother must have liked it. And you’ve seen all of Grandfather’s lady friends! He’s got plenty of scars!”

“I think it’s more complicated than that,” Francis said in a vaguely superior tone, looking out over the creek. It was the “I’m older and I know better” tone. For a few moments, only the burbling of the water rushing over the smooth stones filled the air, and then Antonius gasped.

“Rats! I was supposed to help Octavian this morning! Crap, I have to go! Watch out for savages!” He took off back towards the settlement, his sandals slapping hard against the path that had been worn through the grass by earlier footsteps.

“I’ll probably be skinned and turned into a saddle because you left me alone!” Franciscus called after him. This prospect did not seem to alarm him, as he didn’t move from his seat, just started swinging his feet over the water. The light that filtered through the tree leaves cast a speckled pattern across him, dappling the bare skin below the hem of his tunic and throwing wavering shadows onto his face, shifting with the breeze that rustled the plants. It was the closest Arthur had ever been to one of the Romans, and he had a much better view than looking up into the window. Franciscus was most certainly older than him—taller, with nearly all the childish roundness gone from his face. A streak of envy rushed through Arthur. How unjust, that everyone should be older than him!

Franciscus’ eyes were blue, although Arthur had not thought Romans had blue eyes. As he watched, Franciscus slipped off his sandals, wiggling his toes in the cool breeze, and sighed gustily. This was when Arthur decided it was safe to come out of the bush. Hearing a rustling too deliberate for an animal, Franciscus jumped to his feet as Arthur emerged, reaching for the dagger at his hip. Arthur responded by drawing his small bow and knocking an arrow. Was his confidence in actually being able to hit the other boy very high? Not at all—but he hoped Franciscus might see him and think him as dangerous as his adult fellows.

“How long have you been creeping about?” He stared a long moment at Arthur, then his hand dropped from the knife. “Well, I’m not here to fight you.”

“I am not here to fight you either.” Franciscus’ eyes popped comically wide open as Arthur lowered his child’s bow (it had been a birthday gift from father, not the kind of thing crafted to fight other people).

“A barbarian who speaks Latin! Now that’s something! Where did you learn that?” Arthur sneered.

“I’m a Briton, not a fool,” he said. Franciscus shrugged, and sat down on the bridge again, tucking a leg underneath him so he could face Arthur. Wisps of his golden hair curled around his forehead and ears, and his eyes were deep blue—much darker than the creek, but not the gray-black-blue of the river nearer to the village.

“What are you doing hanging around here?” he asked.

“Not your business,” Arthur replied. “What are you doing?”

“Getting some fresh air!” Franciscus’ mouth twisted up. “With all the horses and soldiers in there it’s a mess! Not like the city at all.”

“Where is the old governor?” Arthur asked. Franciscus studied him a moment before deigning to answer the question.

“Promoted,” Franciscus said. “No one gets sent out here unless you’ve really made someone mad.” Another frown, shaded with resentment.

“Who did your grandfather make mad?” Franciscus’ pale brow knitted and he scrutinized Arthur.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been spying, is it? I thought I saw something out in the woods.” Arthur flushed dully.

“I just look! I don’t hurt anyone.”

“Not very polite, though.” Arthur stared blankly, and Franciscus wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand the word, or the concept of politeness.

“Before, I thought you might be Fae,” the younger boy blurted out. Franciscus cocked his head to one side. Arthur twisted his cloak between his hands, wishing he’d said nothing. “You know. Of the fairy realm,” he said softly. He didn’t know the word for changeling in Latin, nor how to describe the concept of fairies—he had to rely on Celtic words Franciscus would not know, being unfamiliar with local folklore.

“What’s the fairy realm?” Arthur gaped at this Roman idiot.

“Where the fairies live!” More blank staring. Arthur scowled. “Fairies are…magical things. They are very beautiful, but not very nice. Sometimes they do nice things, but a lot of times they trick you. Never go into the fairy realm. Time is different there.”

“Very beautiful, oh?” A smile passed over Franciscus’ face.

“Not the point!” It was, though—it was precisely why Arthur had had the thought when he saw Franciscus sitting all melancholy in the window. What fairy wouldn’t be upset, being stuck in such a place? There were interesting things about the Roman settlement, but nothing beautiful!

“If you’ve been sneaking around hoping to kidnap me, I’m afraid you’re too little, unless you have friends with you.”

“I’m--!” Franciscus just laughed at Arthur’s indignation, smiling in a way that made Arthur very conscious of his missing bottom teeth. They were starting to grow in! The last of his adult teeth could stand to hurry up though. “I am not here for you,” he huffed, stepping closer. He folded his arms over his chest. “I want to be a scribe!” The admission burst from him as suddenly and unadvisedly as the last. Franciscus gave him the curious look again, but when Arthur did not elaborate, he prompted him.

“A scribe?”

“Yes! The one who writes!” Arthur tugged at his cloak hem, unable to disguise the eagerness in his eyes. “My sister was for the last governor, but this one did not want a woman scribe.” Something Mairead was still angry about—Arthur could tell from the way she washed their clothes like she was trying to wear them down to nothing, and the dark scowls she turned towards the settlement with searing emerald glares. “But she teaches me—I can read and write too!” Under cover of darkness and candlelight, Mairead had taught Arthur the Latin alphabet. It had been nothing more than a distracting exercise, until she started to show him how putting the little drawings together made words—they meant¬ something. All his life his eldest sibling had entertained him with stories—of kings of old and noble princes and fearsome dragons and prophetic druids. She told them while mending clothes, and carrying Arthur on her back to gather wood (not anymore, though—now she said he was more than old enough to use his own two legs), and while skinning rabbits by the fire. She told them so often Father complained as long as he was home he was never free of her prattling. When she explained, and showed Arthur how she could write down one of those stories, so that Arthur could read it to himself whenever he wanted, he realized how powerful the alphabet was. Like spell runes, he thought—like magic. That they were the only two in the house who could do it made it feel even more so, like a clandestine power that only they shared, and it thrilled him.

“Really?” Franciscus asked.

“Yes! I can show you! I have paper at my village!”

“I can’t go with you there,” Franciscus said. “We’re not meant to leave the settlement.” It wasn’t that grandfather paid overmuch attention to where they were—he was sure he could traipse off to this boy’s village and back without his absence being noticed (or at least, he would have been in days gone by—now grandfather was bored by his post, and had too much time for attending to his charges)—as that Franciscus did not relish the idea of being torn apart by Briton savages. Arthur was small and unthreatening, but where there was a baby bear, there was a mama bear. Franciscus did not want to meet the mama bear. “Bring it here,” he said.

Arthur huffed and folded his arms again.

“Meet me here at noon,” Franciscus said, his lips twitching at the sight of the surly, demanding child looking so disapproving at him.

“Noon?”

“When the sun is highest in—” Franciscus pointed up, then followed his finger and realized that time marker was far less useful here—there was too much cloud cover to see the sun clearly. Even now, in the warmth of late summer! He recalled what he had heard of British winters and shuddered inwardly. Alone, the clothes that Grandfather had had made for them before their departure were enough to worry him—was it really going to be so cold they’d need all that? “The middle of the day,” he amended.

“Fine. You better be here!” Snickering at the idea of this squat twig of a boy threatening him, Franciscus got to his feet.

“I will,” he said breezily. As long as no one needed him for anything else.

Arthur ran back home, and was immediately seized upon to assist his mother in drying the rabbits Father had brought back the day before. When he finally managed to slip out of that, he dug under the bedding where he kept the sheets he and Mairead had worked on. They had precious little—only what she had taken with her when she left the governor’s employ—so they had to use each one as much as possible. Distressed, he saw that the bed had crumpled the papers, but he would have to worry about that later. He smoothed out the dragon story as much as he could, and hurried off before someone else could avail themselves of his services for some chore or other.

The dragon story was his favorite of the ones that Mairead told, so it was the one she had chosen to write down, as carefully and small as she could. He had re-read it so many times he could recite it from memory. It wasn’t quite as good as hearing her tell it aloud, but he had heard it from her often enough that he could read it to himself using her same inflections and tones, so that it was almost as good.

When he got back to the bridge, Franciscus was not there. Arthur paced around, waiting, and wondering if it was worth it to go into the settlement, but the fair-haired boy came jogging over to the creek before he could decide on that. He was catching his breath, and sweat beaded at his hairline.

“Do you have the paper?” he asked.

“Of course! It’s right here.” Arthur smoothed it out a bit more against his chest and then held it out, casting a nervous eye at the water below. Franciscus took it and scanned it.

"You wrote this?”

“Er—yes.”

“Liar.”

“Hey!” Arthur’s jaw dropped in outrage when the meaning of the word came to him. “I did!”

“This isn’t a child’s handwriting,” Franciscus said dismissively, thrusting the paper back at Arthur. “You just stole this from someone.” Arthur froze—was it possible to tell? He wanted to say Franciscus had no proof, but what if he was right, and there was a way to tell adult writing from kid writing?

“My sister!” Arthur blurted, hiding his hands behind his back. “She writed it. But she teaches me how—I can write too! We have no more paper. I can read it, too!” He took a deep breath. “On a stormy cliffside kingdom, where the wind always blew and the skies were always cloudy—"

“You just memorized it,” Franciscus interrupted, not looking nearly as impressed as he had about Arthur being able to speak Latin. He held the paper out to Arthur again and pointed to a sentence in the middle. “What’s this say?”

“Er—the young prince…the young prince…picked up his sword and raised it up, calling a challenge out—” Who knew that having read the story often enough that he could recite it in his sleep would come in handy? “—and his voice rang through the hills, so that all who heard it would know his courage—”

“Alright, that’s not bad.” Franciscus lowered the paper for Arthur to take it back. “You said your sister used to work here? Do you want her old position?”

“Yes!”

Franciscus nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“Well, they’re not in the practice of hiring babies, but—”

“I’m not a baby! I’m ten!”

“Baby.”

“I’m not!” Franciscus smirked, so Arthur kicked him in the shin and made him yelp.

“Aie! You little savage!”

“I’m not a baby!”

“You’re a big, fat baby,” Franciscus replied, this time stepping neatly out of the way of Arthur’s flying foot, so that he almost unbalanced and went over into the river. Franciscus seized his cloak to keep him on the bridge, and Arthur wailed, flinging himself backwards against the Roman boy to keep away from the slow-moving water. It was not deep there—Franciscus knew, he and his brothers played there in the summer months, when it had been warmer—but Arthur had bad experience. There was a much deeper river not far from the village, and when he had been much younger, he had fallen in. It was one of the childhood memories that stuck with him, and probably always would: the cold, silty water flooding his nose, the rush of the current, the screams of the village women who had seen him fall. Angus had fished him out before any real harm came to him, but he had been leery around water ever since. “Tsk. You should be more careful,” Franciscus said, making Arthur want to kick him again.

“Let go!” Arthur wriggled free, and crossed over to the nearest end of the bridge, on the side of the Roman settlement.

“I was going to say, no one will hire a baby, but if you have talent, you could be trained.” Franciscus said.

“How?” The return of the conversation to his goal got his attention.

“Like your sister taught you. But we have lots of paper, and ink, and books.” Arthur’s eyes widened.

“Yes, Mairead says there are books,” he breathed. “Bunches and bunches of paper with stories! And you have lots of them!”

“Yes, we have a few here,” Franciscus said. “Not as many as in Rome, but more than you have. Do you want to see some things?” Arthur did, of course, so he followed Franciscus into the sleepy settlement. Despite his bravado, he clung close to the Roman boy’s side, watching the guards and soldiers with bone-deep mistrust. They looked at him like they knew he wasn’t supposed to be there. At the same time, he tried to take in everything with his eyes. It was the first time he had ever been inside the settlement, and it was strange to see things close up that he had before only seen from far off. “Wait here.” Franciscus stopped him outside one of the larger buildings.

“Where are you going?” Arthur asked, fighting the urge to reach out and grab Franciscus’ tunic. He twisted the hem of his cloak and looked up at Franciscus with wide eyes.

“To get something. Stay here.” Arthur stayed pressed to the wall by the door, but did not look away from the Romans passing by.

“You look a bit lost here, boy.” He almost fled outright when one of the soldiers stopped to speak to him, but held his ground. The man was tall, and at his level, Arthur could see the muscles in his legs. Even without the uniform, definitely a warrior. He looked down his long, large nose at Arthur. “What are you doing here?”

“He’s with me, Marcus.” At that moment, praise be, Franciscus emerged from the house again.

“Picking up pets, my lord?” Franciscus smiled.

“Teaching tricks. This Briton can speak Latin. Show him!” Arthur scowled at both of them, his dark brow furrowing in an attempt at fearsomeness.

“I am not a pet,” he said.

“Jupiter’s crown! Isn’t that something now?” The solider grinned. “That’s some trick, my lord!”

“Isn’t it? Wait until he can read and write.”

“I can read and write!” Arthur insisted, stomping one foot. This boy was asking to be kicked again!

“Possibly. Well, we have work to do,” Franciscus said to Marcus, urging Arthur along.

“Of course. Stay safe, my lord.” Marcus gave Franciscus a crisp nod and went on his way. Franciscus took Arthur to an empty stall in the stable, and they settled down on a pile of straw. This was, in Franciscus’ view, the best place for privacy in the settlement. Apparently in other people’s view too, because he had seen some others sneaking out of there, and he had heard their trysts too.

“What’s your name?” he asked Arthur at last.

“Arthur,” he replied.

“Arthur,” Franciscus repeated with some curiosity. He did not pronounce it quite right, slurring the “th” sound.

“No, no. Arthur.”

“Arthur.”

“You’ll just have to practice,” Arthur said sanctimoniously. Franciscus showed Arthur what he had taken from the house.

“Grandfather’s reports,” he said. “He’s already read these ones, so I didn’t think he would miss them for a bit. Now, see if you can read this.” Arthur took the paper and bit his lower lip. He was used to Mairead’s writing, and this did not look quite the same. Learning to talk was easier—they didn’t need any supplies for that. She could run him through drills while kneading dough or weaving blankets, and Mother didn’t mind because it kept Arthur from being bored, and causing trouble (he insisted he had never meant to light the haystack on fire, but Father did not much care about the intent so much as the result). But writing out whole sentences in the dirt took time, and Arthur had never seen this many words at once. It did not go as smoothly as he had hoped it might.

“…finding con-sis-tent shhhhortages of salt, which must be r…reme…re-me-died ass soon ass possibel...” Arthur gave a huffy sigh. “This is boring. Bring something better!”

“What, something about princes and dragons?” Franciscus laughed, while Arthur blushed. “No, we don’t have anything like that. Most of the books are about Roman history and military strategy.”

“Are you really from Rome?” Arthur asked, picking up a piece of straw and twirling it around. It had not occurred to him that his first visit into the Roman settlement could become boring. That was intolerable—he had to wring out of it the entertainment he was due, and he was far more curious about the lives of the Roman boys than in what supplies Rome was failing to send them.

“Of course,” Franciscus replied. “We are all of us from Rome.”

“But you don’t look like the governor, or Antonius. Romans can have blue eyes?” Francis frowned deeply, and stiffened, turning his gaze out of the stall.

“Romans have all colors of eyes. Rome is the largest empire in the world,” Franciscus said, flicking a beetle off the hay. He studied the floor by the wall for a moment and then added, “My father was Gaulish.”

“Gaul…” Arthur was sure he had heard mention of this place before.

“It’s the land between here and Rome proper,” Franciscus said. “It is a land of barbarians.”

“But you are of Gaul.”

“No! My father was one of them. My mother was Roman, and I am Roman.” Franciscus looked at Arthur, and exhaled sharply and, not looking at Arthur, went on. “My mother and father knew each other before she was married. Antonius, Feliciano, and Lovino are my half-brothers.”

“Half-brothers?”

“We have the same mother, but not the same father.”

“What happened to them?”

“I don’t know what happened to my father—he’s probably the same place he was before he met my mother. She and my brothers’ father died of a fever back in Rome. That’s why we live with Grandfather.”

“Oh.” Arthur wasn’t sure how to address that. These were problems beyond the scope of a ten-year-old, and Arthur was far from the most emotionally adept child around.

“Why don’t you go on reading? Tell me about the salt shortage.”

Luckily for Arthur, Franciscus did not make him read through the whole report, or even an entire page of it. Before they got that far, he announced that was enough—the subject matter was boring him, as was Arthur’s painfully slow reading—and took the papers back.

“Will you bring something good now?” Arthur asked.

“No, you have to go home,” Franciscus said.

“Why?”

“Because I have things to do, and you can’t take any of this with you. And you’re not even supposed to be in here. I’m not being responsible for the natives deciding we’ve kidnapped you and laying siege to the settlement.” Grumbling, but not wanting to ruin the set-up he had by turning Franciscus against him, Arthur went.

Franciscus had made no mention of returning, but Arthur came back anyway—now that he had an in, he wasn’t about to let it go so easily. This time, he walked right into the settlement, keeping his head up, as if he were there on serious business. If he did get in trouble, he’d just bleat Franciscus’ name and have him dragged over to explain. The holes in his plan that Franciscus would protect him from the worst impulses of the Romans never occurred to him.

He caught sight of his query not far from the settlement’s walls—he must have walked from the governor’s manse, which was still in sight. He had the sword, the one he had maimed Antonius with, and appeared to be training. Again, it struck Arthur that this version of fighting looked much more like dancing—the way he spun and kept his movements sharp and clean, controlled, quick, and lethal. It was not at all how he had been near the edge of hysteria under the governor’s direction. Arthur did not see how it was possible that a boy as fair and soft as Franciscus could ever manage to be a warrior—either of Arthur’s brothers could have snapped him in two, never mind Mairead. He recalled the images of Franciscus in the window, dolorous and lonely, and he wondered if perhaps Franciscus had a dark secret or a curse like the princesses in Mairead’s tales.

Franciscus’ expression was detached, something that Arthur was surprised to recognize. He knew all about being lost in one’s own head—Arthur lost himself in daydreams so often his mother told people he was touched by the Fae. They looked down into his eyes, so serious for a boy his age, and believed it. He moved closer, and he could see the sweat on Franciscus’ forehead, and see the intensity of his narrowed gaze. When he stopped, he was panting, but calm.

“Why did you do that before?” Arthur asked, making Franciscus jump and squeal.

“Arthur!” Wrong. “What are you doing?” 

“I come to read. You are not so bad at fighting. Why make your grandfather mad?”

“You were spying on us!” Franciscus frowned in indignation. “It’s none of your business,” he said, adding a little sneer as he recalled Arthur saying the same thing to him before. Arthur’s snub nose wrinkled in displeasure.

“Show me something new!” he demanded.

“Fine, fine,” Franciscus said with a sigh, sheathing his sword. “You’re lucky there’s nothing else for me to do out here. Britannia is so boring!”

“You’re stupid,” Arthur suggested.

“You’ve never seen Rome,” Franciscus disagreed. “There’s always something happening there! Markets and temples and festivals and people! So many people!”

“Don’t like people.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I want to read.”

“So you do.” Franciscus shook his head. “Maybe if you’re good enough, when I go back to Rome someday, I’ll take you with me as my personal scribe. How would you like that?” Arthur looked around and shrugged.

“I want to read.”

“Yes, yes, alright. Come on.” Franciscus strode off deeper into the settlement, and Arthur trotted along after. Perhaps that day he would have something more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/762732) | [tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/186503721045/day-3-historical-for-frukweek-historical-here)
> 
> If you liked this, you might also like...  
> \- [The Love Song of Arthur J. Kirkland](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091939) by mikkary  
> \- [The Circus Dictionary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/384469) by oatrevolution  
> \- [En Crue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728034) by Shachaai


	2. Soldier Boy Comes Marching Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been five years since Franciscus left with the Roman army. Arthur wonders what's changed since then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo so apparently I actually wrote a good chunk of the second part of this after the last chapter? But I never got around to writing certain end pieces of it...still, it seemed silly not to share what's here, so if you wondered what became of Francis and Arthur's budding friendship, read on!

“…would welcome a visit at a most agreeable time in order that the flourishing of the settlement might—” Arthur’s quill was still scratching against the paper when Feliciano exploded into the room.

“Franciscus is coming home!” he shouted, waving his hands. The governor and Arthur both looked at him with the same kind of incredulity.

“Yes, Feliciano,” the governor said to his youngest charge at last with a patronizing sort of smile. “We went over this a few months ago, remember?”

“No, I mean right now!” Feliciano exclaimed. “I saw him coming up the main road!”

“Now?” The governor turned to fully face Feliciano, and Arthur looked up from reviewing the dictation he had taken so far. He was used to Feliciano’s air-headed behavior, and did not have the governor’s parental indulgence towards it. But if what he said was true, that was of interest.

“Yes, now!”

The announcement brought a flurry of movement. Lovino was already down by the palisade gate, and Arthur dressed quickly against the fall chill before following Feliciano out.

Five years! Five years since Franciscus had last set foot in the settlement. His letters had come infrequently, often lost over the long distances, and were addressed en masse to the household. Arthur tried not to harbor resentment about this. He hunched his shoulders against a brief breeze, and watched the soldiers draw open the gate. In the years that he had spent with the Romans, the place had hardly become any more civilian than it was when the governor first arrived with his family. It was simply too isolated and far-flung for Roman families to see any benefit to exiling themselves out there. By contrast, he heard (from Franciscus), that Roman settlements in Gaul were growing further and further north. Five years…

In Feliciano’s excitement, he had brought them out too early, and they spent nearly thirty minutes huffing and stamping their feet before Franciscus’ horse trotted into view.

Five years! 

Franciscus rode into the settlement, and Arthur found himself painfully relieved the twins were there, because from the moment he set eyes on his old employer, he had no idea what he ought to say. It was terrible, Arthur hated talking to people—it was so much easier to take note of their words, and tweak them to perfection (“tweak” being used in a most liberal sense), than to have to speak with them directly. Anyway, when Franciscus saw his two brothers waiting, his face split into a radiant smile, and the sense of painful relief in Arthur’s chest cinched tighter. All the mornings and nights and afternoons he had wished for Fransiscus’ company seemed to rush back into his lungs at once, shouting out his denials that he had missed his old friend, and he could not possibly have spoken.

Five years!

“Feliciano! Lovino!” He leaped down from his horse, dressed in the full complement of a Roman soldier, and hurried to embrace and kiss his brothers. “Gods, how long it’s been! You’re both full grown!” He smiled affectionately at them, studying the faces of his family.

“I can’t believe you’re really back!” Feliciano gushed.

“Did you bring us something?” Lovino asked, his chin thrust up, looking off at the horse rather than his half-brother.

“Yes, yes. I see Grandfather has been spoiling you,” he said. “Antonius isn’t…?”

“No,” Lovino said, stiffening slightly. “He’s still in Hispania.”

“Ah. Pity.” A frown passed over Franciscus’ face, but he brushed it off quickly. “It’s almost a family reunion then. Arthur, is that you?” He looked past the twins and Arthur’s back went rigid. Sourly, he noted he was unlikely to ever overtake Franciscus in height, despite all his youthful boasting to the contrary. He would have to determine, once all Franciscus’ gear was off, if one of them had an inch or two of advantage, or not.

As a child, he had been skeptical of the idea that Franciscus was related to the governor at all—he saw nothing in the boy’s slender frame and fair countenance that resembled the man (far more likely, he thought, that the boy was a changeling). But now, suddenly, strikingly, he saw the familial bearing of the old Casanova in Franciscus’ face. The firm jawline, the cocky expressions, even (to Franciscus’ horrified dismay) the nose, although Franciscus’ had a crook where the governor’s was straight. Arthur had never considered if the governor was handsome or not—he was too old to warrant such contemplations, and had been, in Arthur’s view, since Arthur was old enough to think about such things. But as he looked at Franciscus, he supposed the governor must have been handsome in his youth—perhaps all his tales of wooing women were not as exaggerated as Arthur believed.

“You old savage,” Franciscus said jovially, striding past the twins to grip Arthur’s forearm in greeting. His fingers made it a good bit around Arthur’s skinny arm, but Arthur realized he didn’t even come close on Franciscus. He supposed that was the effect of wielding a blade daily for half a decade. “You came out to see me!”

“Feliciano was making too much racket for anyone to work,” Arthur grumbled, squeezing Franciscus’ arm and then releasing him, shuffling his feet and studying Franciscus’ sandals. “The governor gave up on his dictation for the day.”

“I see five years was not long enough to soften your attitude,” Franciscus said without bite, pulling his helmet off and raking a hand through his hair. At times, growing up, he had worn it longer, but the governor disapproved, so it was only a matter of time before he surrendered to the scissors and let one of the maids cut it for him. Now it was shorn pure Roman, growing in with a curl, as it was wont to do. “Don’t worry, I know you’re glad to see me.”

“I see the army wasn’t enough to rid you of your arrogance,” Arthur returned sharply.

“Did you think it would be?” Franciscus asked with a broad grin. He tossed Arthur his helmet, which he caught on a reflex, and fought not to throw into the dirt.

“Have you been to the capitol lately?” Feliciano asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What’s going on? It takes ages for news to get here!”

“Did you bring something good?” Lovino asked. “We haven’t gotten a new shipment of cloth in—”

“—five months!” Feliciano finished. Arthur was never quite sure how they managed these exchanges—he had heard them do it even between themselves, with no one else around.

“I didn’t come to make you new clothes, Lovino,” Franciscus said. “Not that it would matter, everything here is woefully out of fashion. It’s hopeless trying to keep up with anything out here.”

“Did you come back to Britannia just to complain?” Arthur complained.

“Of course not! I also came to bother you and remind Grandfather I’m inheriting his estate,” Franciscus said cheerfully, punching Arthur in the upper arm. Arthur made a note to slug him back when they were in private. “Gods, you’ve all gotten so tall! Well, compared to before.” He ruffled Lovino’s hair, and tried to do the same to Arthur, but Arthur ducked and stuck his tongue out.

“Cut that out,” Lovino said, swatting his hand away. “You didn’t come back just to be an ass, did you?”

“It’s a long way to come for that,” Feliciano said. “Besides, you could have just written a letter!”

“I never know how many of those actually make it here,” Franciscus said with a sigh. “Come on, let’s get inside. I need a drink.” Between the three of them, even with Lovino and Arthur feigning indifference, they managed to pester him with several dozen questions by the time they got up to the governor’s office. It wasn’t their fault—without fighting the Britons, nothing exciting ever happened!

“Grandfather would have come to see you,” Feliciano confided in a low voice.

“But his ankle has been causing problems,” Lovino said. “From back when he shattered it.”

“I think it hurts him a lot to go up and down the stairs,” Feliciano said.

Or he was just busy, Arthur thought.

“It’s fine,” Franciscus said, waving a hand. The master of horse, Octavian, stopped to welcome Franciscus home, as did the laundry maids when Franciscus and entourage passed by. He gave them a particular smile, and they looked at him in a way that made Arthur snort derisively.

“Still no betrothed, Arthur?” Franciscus asked. “You have more opportunities than most of us here…”

“Not likely!” Arthur scoffed. “I’m too fucking busy. You think I have time to hang around the village with some girl?” Franciscus shrugged carelessly, and left off that he would have made time. Hanging out with girls was better than running drills by an imperial mile.

In his study, the governor was waiting for them, as evidenced with the pitcher of wine that had already been brought.

“Franciscus,” he greeted his eldest, rising stiffly to his feet.

“Please Grandfather, sit,” Franciscus said, going to take his arm in greeting. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“Am I so old that merely getting to my feet is troubling myself?” grumbled the governor.

“Feliciano and Lovino tell me your ankle is bothersome.”

“Ah, it’s nothing!” the governor dismissed it. “And old wound playing up, it will pass.” Franciscus made no argument, only withdrew something from his person and brought it down heavily on the desk.

“My career in the army is over,” he said. The governor picked up the honor from the table, his eyes like serving trays.

“You never mentioned this!”

“I have come to tell you in person,” Franciscus said, as Feliciano, Lovino, and Arthur clamored for a view of the trophy.

“How long ago--?”

“Two years,” Franciscus said.

“For two years you kept this from me!” The governor’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning.

“I came to tell you in person,” Franciscus repeated. “And to tell you that—”

“I told you!” the governor exclaimed, slamming his hand down on the desk. “You have always had such promise! You have a future! Antonius, he can swing a sword, but you have strategy—”

“I’ve been discharged,” Franciscus interrupted, earning himself another hawk-eyed stare from the governor.

“Why?”

“I left,” he said simply. Arthur was sure it was not his imagination that the twins were beginning to edge towards the door.

“I see. You left. You were honored by a consul, and you decided to just leave.”

“I fulfilled my commission,” Franciscus said.

“The commission was just a start!” The governor’s voice rose to a shout and he slammed his fist down on the desk once again. “Do you know what I had to do to get you and Antonius a commission? You ungrateful brat! I made you into a solider, I bargained for your commission, and you mean to throw it all away!”

For years, Arthur had silently watched the dynamic play between the governor and his grandchildren. As a servant, it was not his place to interject, or offer an opinion, and Franciscus never spoke to him of these things, not even when Arthur had been there to see them. He had always been a dutiful child, but Arthur could never tell if his deference stemmed from love, or loathing.

This time, Franciscus was not cowed. Arthur dared only a brief glimpse up at his face, otherwise pretending none of this was happening, as was his usual defense, and he saw the steely glint of Franciscus’ eyes, and the firm set of his jaw, and realized with shock that Franciscus did not mean to back down. Letting his hair grow out a bit had, up ‘til then, been the greatest rebellion he had committed against his grandfather. There was no demure lowering of his gaze, no shuffling of feet, or bowing of head, no excuses, or acquiescence, or swallowed words. Now Arthur saw why Franciscus had bothered coming back, and the governor had to be enraged.

“What will you do, then?” the governor demanded, his pain forgotten in the fury that still managed to be intimidating even in his age. “Sit around and draw pictures all day? Live out your life leeching off this household, and be a servant for the next governor? Let our family die in ruin? Go join your savage father in Gaul?”

Franciscus flinched, his composure and determination wavering. Habitually, he lowered his eyes, the tension in his shoulders tightening.

“I have no father,” he said, lifting his gaze again to look directly into his grandfather’s face. “And I have no need of one. I am grateful for what you have done for me, Grandfather, but I have said from the start I do not wish to be a solider.”

“What an immature boy wishes, and what reality demands, are two very different things,” the governor said, fuming like a bull about to charge.

“I have plans,” Franciscus said.

“Plans I trust you will carry out on your own,” the governor replied, taking his seat and tossing Franciscus’ honor at the desk like throwing a bone to a dog. “You will have no help from me, you wretched ingrate. I raised you, your mother’s illegitimate bastard, and this is your repayment? Bah! At least your brothers will do their duty!”

“Which one?” Franciscus asked, bitterness warping his face. “Antonius, or the twins you’ve always favored?” The governor narrowed his eyes again, and Franciscus curled his lip. “Don’t deny it,” he said. “I’ve known that since I was a child. The perks of being pure Roman stock, I assume.”

“I cared for all of you,” the governor said, pointing an accusing finger at Franciscus. “I took you _all_ in, and this is the gratitude you’ve shown for the career I bought you.”

“Of course. But Lovino and Feliciano are the ones you mean to inherit your legacy,” Franciscus said. “I note you have not been so quick to shunt them off into the army as you were with me and Antonius.”

“There is great honor in the Roman army,” the governor said. “There is a future, a career there.”

“But not the one you intend for Lovino and Feliciano.”

“If you mean to carry imagined grudges from your childhood your whole life, there is nothing I can do to dissuade you,” the governor said. “But it will not help you. You are a man, Franciscus. It is time you started behaving like one.”

“I will,” Franciscus replied. “And I will start by choosing my own path.” He took the trophy from the desk and curled his fist around it. “But I thought I should tell you in person.” The governor scoffed.

“To honor or humiliate me, Franciscus?”

“Do you truly need to ask that question?” Franciscus gave the man a long look, then turned towards the door.

“You may be dismissed,” the governor said. “And take your Briton with you.”

“Arthur,” Franciscus barked as he passed by. “Come.”

“I’m not a pet,” Arthur reminded him as soon as they were out in the hall, away from the governor.

“Then don’t skulk around and eavesdrop like one,” Franciscus replied, turning the honor over in his hand.

“Oh, should I have excused myself, then?” Franciscus made a derisive sound and strode off, making for his old room. “Come on, Franciscus. You knew how that would go! You came all the way back just to do that? You juts spat in his face!”

“It would have been worse to do it in a letter,” Franciscus said. “Especially a letter that might never reach here. For that, he would have called me a coward on top of it.” They walked in silence for a few paces. It was not uncomfortable—Arthur appreciated that. Franciscus could certainly go on, but he didn’t always require Arthur to answer, and they had grown comfortable with quiet between them. The benefit of working with the same person for so long—the other was that Franciscus did not hold Arthur to the same standards of propriety to which other servants were held. Franciscus paused outside his room and sighed heavily. “I didn’t do it to spite him, whatever he thinks.”

“Then why did you?” Arthur asked as they entered the room.

“I hate being a solider,” Franciscus said. “I’ve always hated it, since I was a boy. He knows that. He kept thinking it would change, or I’d get over it. I don’t want to spend my life in a career I hate, being someone or something I’m not.” Arthur blinked, and had no response, as Franciscus surveyed the room. “It seems so much smaller!” he exclaimed, the heaviness bled out of his voice. “Gods! How much time did we spend in here?”

“A lot,” Arthur remembered, a smile twitching on his lips.

“Do you remember throwing acorns at the captains with Antonius from the twins’ room?” he asked, looking back at Arthur with a childish grin.

“I remember how furious they were.” Arthur said. “I thought your—the governor was going to skin us.”

“Ah.” Franciscus waved his hand. “He thought their faces were too funny to punish us.”

“Speaking of faces, I thought he was going to explode when you said you’d quit the army.”

“For a minute, so did I,” Franciscus said, starting to shrug off the various pieces of his uniform. The armor he stacked on Antonius’ old bed, in absence of anywhere else to put it. Someone had brought his things up while he was speaking with the governor. He let out a long sigh and stretched thoroughly after stripping down, then rifled through his things for something more casual to wear. Arthur noticed scars on his back and arms that had not been there before. He also noticed that even stripped of his armor, Franciscus was considerably broader than he had been at seventeen, when he left the settlement. Being a scribe did not afford one many opportunities to bulk up, particularly when one’s frame did not immediately lend itself to that sort of thing to begin with.

“Well, how about you?” Franciscus dropped down onto the bed once he was dressed, and looked expectantly at Arthur.

“What about me?” Arthur asked, bunching his shoulders.

“Don’t do that, it’s just a question. I haven’t seen you in five years, Arthur. What have you been up to?”

“Working,” Arthur said.

“Yes, I did anticipate that,” Franciscus said dryly. “Anything else? How’s your family? Your sister, your parents? Do you see them much?”

“Not especially,” he said with a shrug. “No one’s ever let go that I came to live here. Well, Mairead and Daffyd did, but everyone else seems to have taken it as a personal insult. Anyway, they’re…” Arthur trailed off and frowned, trying to put a name to the feeling he got going home. The sense of distrust, of isolation, the smallness of the village. “I don’t fit in there. I don’t suppose I ever did.”

“Good thing we were here then,” Franciscus said, and Arthur gave him a withering look. Possibly it was this that made him sober up, but then he rose to his feet and said, “Come walk with me.”

Franciscus led them out of the house and through the settlement, out the opening that faced the creek. The walls had become more extensive since Arthur had moved in. The bridge was the same.

“I didn’t just come back to make my grandfather write me out of his will,” Franciscus said, turning to face Arthur.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m going back to Rome,” he announced. “I like the city, and I can find work there. I did well enough in the army for that. There’s diplomatic work there. I’m sure I can find something, and I have the wages I saved from soldiering.”

“I suppose we all should have known you didn’t really mean to stay here.”

“I want you to come with me.”

Arthur almost choked on his intake of breath.

“Wh-what? Come to Rome? Why?”

“To be my scribe, of course,” Franciscus said, like Arthur was an idiot.

“In Rome?”

“In Rome! If I don’t bring you, I’d just have to train someone else anyway,” Franciscus said, and Arthur made no mention that Franciscus could write very well himself, and pen his own damn letters. “Besides…” He took a breath and glanced down the creek, then back at Arthur. “I think it would be a shame if you never saw it.” Arthur folded his arms tightly against his thin chest, swallowing hard. His and Franciscus’ relationship had never been quite smooth, and the idea that he had come all this way to bring Arthur back to Rome with him was getting caught up in the cogs of Arthur’s brain and causing a real jam. “You’re clever, Arthur,” Franciscus went on, perhaps assuming Arthur needed more encouragement to say yes. “There’s so much more than this!” He looked around them. “There’s opportunity in Rome! There’s—gods, I can’t make you understand if you’ve never seen it. Look, just come. Come for a time. If you don’t want to stay, I’ll pay your passage back. But you have to at least see it, walk the streets, breathe the air…it would be such a waste if you never had the chance.”

“Oh, you think staying in my homeland is a waste?” Gods above, it was easier to pick a fight with Franciscus than acknowledge what he was offering! “Awfully high and mighty for someone who’s half barbarian himself!” Franciscus’ expression tightened, and then smoothed over with all the effort of a someone tolerating the idiocy of a stupid child who couldn’t know any better.

“I’m only saying it’s a waste for you to never have the chance,” he said. “What you choose to do with it is up to you. I’m inviting you, Arthur. If you don’t want to decide now, fine. But I want to cross back to Gaul before winter sets in.”

“That soon?” Arthur asked, his arms loosening. “That’s barely any time at all! You came all this way to drop a message and run?”

“I see no reason to stay.”

“Your family is here!” Arthur blustered at last, unable to come up with a better reason.

“And they can come visit me in Rome,” Franciscus said. “In fact, I’m sure they’ll be glad to have a reason. Lovino and Feliciano barely remember the capitol they were so young when we left, I’m sure they’ll be glad to visit again.”

“What about your grandfather? He’s getting old!”

“He’s welcome to come stay in Rome,” Franciscus said. “Or he’ll be slain by Britons in a fight, which I believe he might prefer to living out his dotage under the care of his grandchildren.”

“Well…!” Arthur’s heated beginning went nowhere.

“Like I said, you don’t have to decide now,” Franciscus said in a gentler tone. “But think about it. Really think about it. I don’t know that I’ll be back here after this, Arthur. Ever. This is a long way from…everything.” Arthur’s eyes darted back and forth, and he squeezed his arms against himself.

“I need to think about it,” he said. Franciscus nodded. “Does your grandfather know you’re doing this?”

“No. But I’ll tell him,” he said. “I only lent you to him, after all.” He winked, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

“The day you all stop treating me like the family dog is the day the heavens shine down on the earth.”

“That’s every day in Rome,” Franciscus said.

“Hopefully they relent at night, or all the Romans must be dreadfully sleep-deprived,” Arthur said. Franciscus snorted, and shook his head.

“Think about it. Let me know what you decide,” he said. Arthur thought of a thousand things to say as Franciscus turned to head back into the settlement, but they all sounded inane and pointless, clingy and unneeded. He said nothing, and gave Franciscus several minutes’ head start before he went back in as well. Presumably, the governor would want to finish his dictation.

***

Arthur agonized over the choice. It should have been simple. Why on Earth would he want to sail away from the only home he ever knew, plunge himself into the society of the aggressor, and leave behind his family? Working with Franciscus in Britannia, it was easier to say he wasn’t working with the enemy (at least to himself—plenty of his peers had decided he was, and would brook no arguments), but to settle himself down in Rome, at the heels of a Roman nobleman? He would be Caesar’s pet!

And yet…

And yet…

And yet…Franciscus would be in Rome. Arthur did not doubt he would never return to Britannia, save possibly to oversee the governor’s funeral, should it be necessary. Five years was nothing, compared to a lifetime. What would Franciscus look like when Arthur saw him next?

The same pain that had twisted in his breast when Franciscus first rode through the palisade gate returned with fervor, as if something white-hot was trying to sear its way out of him.

Rome was a thousand imperial miles from Britannia…it was a world away. It might as well have been one of the stars up in the sky. And if Arthur went with, who was to say he would ever return himself? A hundred deaths could befall them before they even made it there, let alone made it back! He would have no way of writing home.

With a snarl, he threw the scroll he had been reading off the table so that it clattered against the floor, and he felt a brief pang of concern he might have damaged it. How could Franciscus do this to him? Come sweeping back into their lives just to upend everything and then leave again?

Once Franciscus had fallen off his horse, and cut both knees badly on the stones below. How he had moaned and wailed while cleaning them! With his grandfather out of earshot, there was no cap on the dramatics he would launch into. He declared he might never walk right again, and could not stomach trying to clean the bloody bits of earth from his flesh. Arthur was sure Antonius would have helped, if he had been about. Arthur could have run to fetch him.

Instead, he took over, removing the stones from Franciscus’ raw skin, and using the bowl of water and discarded cloth to wipe away the blood and dirt. The memory of Franciscus’ watery blue eyes and sniffling was not a particularly flattering one, but one that had embedded itself into Arthur’s mind all the same. He was not a gentle sort—he never had been. But when Franciscus held still, and allowed Arthur to clean his wounds, there was an odd kind of pride in him, as if he was carrying out some worthwhile task.

It wasn’t about Rome, whatever Franciscus said. Arthur’s brief flare of temper faded, and he sat on the floor, with his back to the wall, and dug his fingernails deeply into the opposite palm. It was about whether he would stay with what he knew, or whether he would follow Franciscus into the unknown. It was about whether he trusted his old companion—about whether he would take the risks to stay with him.

That was why it was hard—because the answer, to Arthur, was obvious. _No!_ No, no, no! A thousand times no! It was stupid, and feckless, and there was no goal, no clear parameters! If Arthur had been advising someone in his position, he would have called them a fool for even considering it!

But he had made his choice days ago, when the question had first been posed. It was just a matter of realizing that.

He found Franciscus before dinner, lounging in the atrium with Feliciano. He came to an abrupt halt at the threshold, his whole strategy blown apart by the presence of someone else.

“Did you need something, Arthur?” Franciscus asked lightly, looking up from Feliciano and his goblet of wine.

“I—er—it can wait.” Franciscus’ eyes swept him up and down, and had that hidden kind of look, the Fae look.

“No, no.” He rose to his feet, swinging his legs off the couch in a fluid arc. “The work never ends,” he said to Feliciano with a smile, setting his wine down. “Excuse me, little brother.” He touched Arthur’s shoulder on the way by, bidding him to follow, and Arthur’s breath caught painfully in his chest. What kind of moronic thing was he doing?

Franciscus felt no need to speak as he sought out a decently empty spot of the house before turning sharply to Arthur.

“Have you decided?” he asked.

“Yes,” Arthur exhaled. “I’ll go.” He knew that Franciscus wanted him to—he wouldn’t have made the bloody offer otherwise—but he was not prepared for the blinding smile that spread across his face.

“You will!” Franciscus grasped his hands and squeezed them tightly—as if they were friends. As if they were equals. “Fantastic! Oh, I so hoped you would!” He didn’t look as surprised as Arthur thought he should be, he noted with annoyance. Franciscus was too busy grinning at him like an idiot to notice. “Wait until you see Rome! There’s really nothing else like it in the world. You’ll always have something to do there!”

“I have things to do here,” Arthur muttered, looking down at their hands, down to their feet.

“The people! There’s always someone interesting about, and always politics!” Arthur groaned inwardly. “The temples are just the most beautiful things in the world. And the markets! Oh, the markets! Just wait until you see them!” Franciscus let go of his hands, and Arthur hastily took them back, wiping his palms on his tunic. “This is perfect,” Franciscus said, taking a deep breath. “You don’t have many things, and there’s not much here I want, so we can be ready to go in a few weeks.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to travel this late in the year?” Arthur asked, shifting his feet. “Maybe we should wait until spring.”

“Gods no, I’m not spending another wretched winter here,” Franciscus said. “We’ll travel by the end of the month. You’ll be glad when you feel the weather in the south.” He paused, considered, and sobered a bit. “Take the time to say your goodbyes,” he said. “I’m putting you on leave until we go.”

“But the governor—”

“—has two idle grandsons who are more than capable of taking dictation until we find someone else to take your place. I want you to be ready for this, I don’t want you to get there and feel like you made a mistake.”

“It would be so unfortunate to have to pay for my trip back.”

“Don’t be argumentative about everything,” Franciscus snapped. “It’s not about the money. Don’t be so cynical, or I’ll change my mind and take Feliciano instead.”

The insults hovered on Arthur’s tongue, but recalling who employed him, he held back. The look he gave Franciscus was enough.

“You heard me,” Franciscus said, though it was clear he knew the threat was ineffective. “Get ready to pack your things.”

So Arthur went, and wondered how Francis might shake his world tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd always meant to write Arthur's goodbye to his family, but I never got around to it. I had plans at one point for them actually going to Rome, but that was like...two years ago, so presently I don't expect to do anything else with this, just wanted to share what I had. It did involve Francis becoming a diplomat and Arthur getting really into writing and, of course, kissing. Because they love each other. Anyway if you want more FrUK reading take a look at my bookmarks! I have a good number of FrUK fics in there.
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/644207498417635328/the-governors-son-pt-ii)
> 
> [You want some FrUK tunes?](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4B6coTYlEftvPfeR7vSGg1?si=vUaahmsgQP-WHtXh8GXNwg)


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